


DH Monro Wasn't Kidding

by Ewebie



Series: Tumblr Shorts [27]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Awful AU, Here be TERRIBLE JOKES!, I had a lot of requests to make this stand-alone and findable so... yeah..., Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Pulled from Tumblr Shorts, Sorry Not Sorry, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-19
Updated: 2017-08-20
Packaged: 2018-12-17 07:56:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11847270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ewebie/pseuds/Ewebie
Summary: Pulled from Tumblr ShortsSorry, it's not new... not exactly...This one comes from an "awful AU" prompt:“Every time you raise your hand to answer a question in lecture you manage to work a pun in somewhere, and NO ONE ever notices except me. Everyone thinks I’m crazy because I’m always laughing for ‘no reason’ and lately you’ve taken to winking at me every time you drop a joke. I have had ENOUGH I will fucking fight you right in front of the whole class” AUThat showed up on my dash because of fleur.





	1. DH Monro Wasn't Kidding

**Author's Note:**

> And I thought... sure... why not... it's not like I have a job and work and stuff and adulting to do...
> 
> http://ewebie.tumblr.com/post/118927730603/awful-au-259

“The mitochondria…” the professor droned on.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Dull. How many times did he have to sit in lecture and hear about the damn mitochondria. If the words ‘power house of the cell,’ were uttered, he would walk out. Storm out. Gleefully depart and never return. This man needed to be fired.

“… Up to ten different complete copies of mtDNA per mitochondrion.”

Sherlock shuddered as the chalk squeaked on the slate, the number ten being drawn largely and ridiculously in the center of the board. Boring. Who even used chalkboards anymore? He eyed the board with growing distain. There were exactly fifteen unrelated words scratched out. None were necessary. They were borderline irrelevant.

“Classification of mitochondrial DNA presents a challenge. Does anyone know what system is employed in this case?”

Sherlock sighed heavily and slumped further down in his seat. Could this get anymore tedious? He shot daggers at the scattered hands that went up around the large lecture theater.

“Sir, studies into mitochondrial DNA tend toward differentiation into cladistic haplogroups.”

Accurate. Sherlock’s face twisted into something of not complete ire.

“Very good, Mr. Watson. And how have they managed the ten copies?”

Ah. No one really cares. The statistics into these irrelevant thoughts were agonizing.

“Dewey have to, Sir?”

Sherlock nearly choked, quickly covering the sound in a cough. Did he just…

“Do you think ten is an inconsequential number, Mr. Watson? Ten types.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the back of the other student’s head, golden blond hair shaking back and forth in a no response.

“Like the types of people that understand binary, Sir. Not at all inconsequential. But there’s a problem with sampling bias in the under represented haplotypes that has yet to be overcome. The number of copies is a rather moot point until that problem can be solved, no?”

Sherlock clamped down on his lower lip, the urge to laugh novel and surprising and a bit unbidden. The pun, both puns rather, had been spoken so swiftly, coolly, that the professor hadn’t even noticed. No one had noticed. There wasn’t a single flinch or snicker from the entire room.

“Good point, Mr. Watson. Now, the tracing of mitochondrial DNA…”

Sherlock frowned. How could such a particularly brilliant joke go unappreciated? He wrinkled his nose and began to absently tap the top of his pen against his lip. And who exactly is Mr. Watson? When the lecture drew to a merciful close, Sherlock was still watching the back of that blond head.

~o~

It wasn’t for another few days that Sherlock noticed him again. Chemistry. Sherlock adored chemistry. It held that perfect combination of predictability and chaos that could fix his attention. Fascination. Lectures were still tedious to the extreme. And ten minutes into this one, Sherlock was already drifting off into his own head, composing music to the atomic numbers. The door creaking noisily distracted him.

“You’re late, Mr. Watson.” No sneaking into this lecture hall. And the professor was notoriously abusive in response to tardiness.

Most of the heads in the hall turned towards Watson, some annoyed with the interruption, some mercifully sympathetic to his plight; Sherlock studied him. The blond hair was just on the far side of shaggy, probably needed to be cut, but was outgrown in pure collegiate spite of rules; his cheeks were flushed, as though he’d been running, exertional vasodilation, but he wasn’t breathing heavily, fitness from sport apparent in the way he moved; his hands twitched against the strap of his knapsack, in agitation perhaps, delicate, tapered fingers, dexterous, stained with… motor oil?

“I’m sorry, Sir,” he answered earnestly. “Car trouble.”

Ah, it was motor oil. Interesting that he’d be capable of fixing his own car, fixing his own car and only getting oil on his fingers; he knew about cars then. Sherlock frowned and filed that bit of information away for later.

“No one cares,” the professor retorted testily. Sherlock raised a brow; well, that was rude. “Take a seat, Mr. Watson.”

The other students attended the harsh tone in the professor’s voice, turning forward in their seats once more. Few of them heard the light objection that came from Watson. “But all the good ones Argon.”

Sherlock snorted. Just once. Just quietly. And Watson heard him. Ah, that was something he’d failed to notice: deep blue eyes, almost navy, and absolutely lit with mischief. The corner of Watson’s mouth quirked and he slid easily from the aisle into a vacant seat at the back of the room. Sherlock snapped his head forward. Trouble. That man was trouble.

~o~

Thermodynamics seemed like a useful topic. Practical knowledge to retain. Practical for a great many reasons and for a great many uses. Sherlock actually paid attention in this class. If for no other reason than to correct the professor when he was wrong, which was shockingly infrequent. He’d not say it was fascinating, but relevant enough to hold his interest.

“Conceptually, with enthalpy and entropy many students struggle.” Sherlock watched the equations appear on the powerpoint sequentially. Obviously people struggled. Clearly they were idiots. “And the difference is?” There was a pause. “Mr. Watson?”

Sherlock’s head swiveled to the side as Watson glanced up, a slightly pink tinge to his cheeks. There was a moment when Sherlock was actually concerned that the other student hadn’t been paying enough attention.

But then Watson’s shoulders dropped into neutral, he licked his lower lip, and gave an easy smile. “Enthalpy is the sum of internal energy of matter added to the product of pressure and volume, Sir.”

“Not bad. And entropy?”

“An ever increasing problem that favors a random state over a structured one.”

Sherlock snickered. Then dropped his head in horror. He never encouraged that kind of humor. Jesus.

Watson’s eyes flicked over to Sherlock for a fraction of a second, his smile increasing ever so slightly as he finished his answer. “For thermodynamics, it represents the unavailability of a system’s thermal energy for conversion into mechanical work. And,” the corner of his mouth quirked. “It’s just not what it used to be.”

Sherlock flattened his palm over his mouth to keep from snickering again.

“Very good, Mr. Watson. I wasn’t sure you were paying attention.”

“Always, Sir.”

The lecture resumed. Sherlock busied himself with the sheets of paper in front of him. He resolutely ignored Watson. He definitely didn’t look over at him, and he certainly didn’t see the cheeky grin and cocked eyebrow that Watson directed at him. And he wasn’t at all amused.

~o~

More about ionic bonds. More about covalent bonds. This was secondary school material. Hadn’t these idiots learned about this yet? If not for the ridiculous rule about attendance and grades, Sherlock wouldn’t subject himself to this class anymore. Perhaps it was dangerous associating the drone of the Chemistry professor with his newest composition, but music and science were so inextricably entwined in his brain that Sherlock couldn’t seem to care.

“And do you think, Mr. Watson, that sodium is likely to favor a hydrogen bond?”

Sherlock’s ears pricked. It was Pavlovian conditioning at its best. The voice came from somewhere over his left shoulder, moderate, neutral, calm. He was beginning to enjoy that voice. It wasn’t overly deep, but then again, Watson wasn’t terribly tall. Charismatic, maybe. But not tall.

“Na.”

A small laugh burst through Sherlock’s lips. And he looked up in horror as a third of the room turned to eye him strangely.

“Anything I should know about, Mr. Holmes?”

Fuck. Sherlock coughed and cleared his throat. “No, Sir. Sorry, Sir.” He coughed again for good measure. It was a weak defense, but the majority of students seemed to buy it, turning back to the front. “Bit of a cold, Sir.” He coughed again.

“Perhaps a sip of water then.”

Sherlock nodded and slid from his seat, heading up the aisle for the door. He had to walk past Watson. And he had to catch his eye. Watson was watching him, his tongue resting on his lower lip as he bit back a smile. And as Sherlock passed, he winked. Sherlock felt himself flush out to the tips of his ears as he fled the room.

~o~

It wasn’t as if he was following Sherlock. At least, that’s what Sherlock was hoping. But every lecture they shared, and it was an awful lot of lectures, Watson seemed to find a seat relatively close to him. Not next to him, never next to him. But close. And it’d now been four times. FOUR. That his infuriating puns had made Sherlock laugh in the middle of a lecture. Laugh loud enough that the professor heard, that the other students heard. And they all looked at him as if he were insane. Granted, the joke about zero Kelvin just being okay, and the one about… No. NO! They were not funny. They were not amusing. They were entirely spoken with the goal of embarrassing Sherlock and making more people think him crazy. The madness had to end.

Biology again. Biology was only moderately interesting. Transport for all beings. Relevant to an extent but grossly deletable. And rather unamusing. Good. Sherlock settled himself into the far back corner of the lecture theater with the intention of tuning out for the next hour. Maybe he would tidy his mind palace. A familiar blond settled into a seat three rows down and five seats to the right. Sherlock wrinkled his nose: Watson. And as if he could read Sherlock’s thoughts, he turned, his eyes finding Sherlock with unfailing accuracy, and a broad, amused smile stretched across his face. He turned away quickly to answer a question from another student at his side – rugby player, basic sciences, not bright enough to finish the degree, drinks too much on the weekends, overcompensating, has a girlfriend of six, no, eight months, cheating on her for three – Sherlock frowned. For someone who had an unerringly clever sense of humor, Watson kept poor company.

“… And why is this so relevant? Yes, Mr. Watson.”

Sherlock tensed. He hadn’t been paying attention. Oh God. Don’t laugh. Do not laugh. Sherlock. Holmes. Control. Yourself.

“Bipedal, Sir. As bipedalism is quite rare in mammals, it is one of the delineations between ancient hominids and modern humans, though the debate over the evolutionary pressures to become so is still being kicked around.”

Sherlock snorted, then resolutely schooled his face. He wouldn’t laugh at this ridiculousness. A few heads turned in confusion.

Watson continued. “Though, statistically speaking, the majority of people have an above average number of legs.”

That did it. Sherlock let loose a chuckle. More heads turned. More of them were watching him warily, as if he were plotting something desperate. The professor glanced up at his corner. “Alright there, Mr. Holmes?”

Watson turned, an expression of pure innocence on his face. Sherlock glared at him. He knew. He KNEW what he was doing. How could he pretend to be so dumb and be so clever and act so innocent and get a rise out of… Sherlock clenched his jaw. “Yes. Fine.”

Watson looked about to turn back front, as most of the faces returned to the professor. But just as Sherlock was about to curl up on himself in the corner, Watson winked at him. Sherlock fumed.

~o~

Sherlock couldn’t tolerate the amused expressions on Watson’s face. He just couldn’t. He opted to sit further front. That way he wouldn’t have to look at the man. Wouldn’t have to glare at him every time he made a spectacle. Every time he made Sherlock laugh in class. Every time the people around him though Sherlock was mad. This was bullying. Granted, a much more intellectual form of it, but it was terrible. And every time Sherlock saw Watson, all he could deduce about the man was the idiotic puns that he’d already spoken in class, the gossip that had been floating around the university, the basic, ordinary things. It was infuriating!

He sighed and pretended to copy down the latest physics formula. He’d studied this before. He knew this. This was so banal.

“… So Kirchhoff demonstrated conductivity thus.”

“Sir?”

Sherlock pressed his eyes shut. No. No laughing.

“Yes, Mr. Watson?”

“That’s Ohms!”

“I’m sorry?” Sherlock blurted out at the same time as his professor. He turned in his seat to glare at Watson.

Watson cocked an eyebrow at Sherlock, his right hand flicking at the front of the room, but his gaze remaining resolutely on Sherlock. “Ohm’s law,” he wet his lips, the corners of his mouth threatening a smirk. “It’s all about resistance.”

Sherlock sputtered, blushing instantly.

Watson’s attention returned to the professor, his expression mostly unreadable. “Kirchhoff just reformulated Ohm’s work and published using conductivity as a novel concept. Rather trite, really.”

Sherlock swallowed heavily as the professor’s eyes flit between himself and Watson. “Out.”

“What?” Sherlock hissed.

“The two of you, out.” The professor pointed at Sherlock then at Watson. “I won’t have nonsense in this lecture. If you cannot take this course seriously, I’ll not humor you. Out.”

Watson shrugged. “I’m sorry if I upset you, Sir.” He collected his notes and tucked them neatly into his bag. “I didn’t realize Kirchhoff was a topic anything less than ideally fluid.”

Sherlock was halfway to the exit and he burst out laughing. Watson somehow managed not to. “Out,” the professor repeated.

Watson sighed and headed up the stairs towards the exit at the back, his shoulder brushing Sherlock’s as he passed his side. “That’s the thing about chemists,” he muttered under his breath. “It’s not that their stupid, they just fail to react.”

Sherlock choked and nearly fell down the stairs.

With the lecture theater door closed behind them, Sherlock rounded on Watson. “You have to stop!”

“Stop?”

That damned innocent expression on his face! Sherlock growled and ran a hand through his curls, clenching the tips and giving a slight tug. “The puns! They are terrible! Please. They have to stop. You have got to stop. People are looking at me like I’m insane. And I’m not. And it’s your fault!” He poked a finger at Watson’s chest.

Watson smiled lazily. “Coffee?”

“What?!”

It looked as if his face simultaneously shrugged, blinked, and feigned innocence. “Coffee. It’s this thing. Most of us drink it. Stimulant. Bitter. Dark. Hot…” Sherlock furrowed his brow as Watson’s eyes seemed to flick from head to toe and back up. “Sweet.”

Sherlock swallowed. “You want… Coffee?”

Watson nodded. “I’ve an hour to kill now that I’m out of that lecture.”

Sherlock squinted at him. “Are you… Are you flirting?”

Watson raised a brow, his eyes glinting. “Depends.”

“On?”

“Is it working?”

“Will you stop with the terrible puns?”

“Not at all.”

Sherlock groaned.

"It's the only time I see you smile." Watson’s tongue swept across his lower lip as he broke into a smile. He stuck his hand out. “John Watson.”


	2. Punny Men and Their Chemicals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ok. Ok. I get it. Terrible puns are amusing. And flirty Uni John is hot as hell. And I never do this... Except that one other time that I did this. So. Here's part II of DH Monro Wasn't Kidding. But that's it. No more horrible jokes. Please!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Links to the longest joke ever in the text "Better Late Than Never" ... I take no responsibility for you deciding to lose 45 minutes of your life should you click on it.
> 
> Also... I've linked one other bit near the end. Scientists are nerdy perverts. That is all.

It’s just a cup of coffee. Just one cup of coffee, Sherlock reminded himself over and over as they headed to a nearby café.

“Sherlock, relax,” John murmured. “It’s just killing time before class. I won’t bite.” Sherlock raised a brow and tried to look down his nose at the shorter man, but a gentle hand at the small of his back, guiding him towards one of the booths took the wind right out of his sails. “Unless you’re into that,” John winked as Sherlock stumbled into one side of the booth. “What’ll you have?”

“Um… C-coffee?” Sherlock stammered.

“Back in a tick,” John tossed his knapsack into the booth and headed to the counter, returning moments later with two coffees and a scone. “Hungry?”

Sherlock made an indiscriminant noise high in his throat and waved off the offer of food, dumping three sugar packets into his coffee instead. “So,” Sherlock drawled. “John Watson.” He narrowed his eyes at him, studying his face, his form, the way he was holding his coffee – milk, no sugar. “What’s a medical student doing playing rugby instead of studying?”

John cocked his head, one eyebrow raising. “Who said I don’t study?”

“The team here trains daily with Friday or Saturday matches, your course load includes all the basic sciences, each of which carries a heavy lab component. You work part time at the pub up the road, mostly on Sundays at the bar and restocking in the evenings, as well as the bakery next door early in the mornings. You’re diligent with your appearance and fitness, popular with the lads, not terribly unpopular with the ladies, and yet no where, in that rather rigid schedule, is there time to study.” Sherlock paused to take a breath.

The corner of John’s mouth pulled back in the beginning of a stunned smile. “Brilliant.”

“Sorry, what?”

John shook his head and crammed a large bite of scone into his mouth. “That was. I’d heard you’re rather clever, but that was actually amazing.” He looked up with a twinkle in his eye. “Unless, of course, you’re stalking me.”

Sherlock sputtered.

“Which would be awesome,” John finished casually. “But no. I’d have noticed you skulking about.”

“I don’t skulk,” Sherlock muttered scornfully.

“Then what do you do, Sherlock Holmes? When you’re not getting me kicked out of lecture.”

“That was hardly my fault.”

“That was entirely your fault,” John countered. “Just because you can’t keep from laughing at me.”

“Are you tormenting me?”

“Tormenting? No.” John paused, considering Sherlock carefully. “Teasing, maybe. I can’t help it if you find my humor unavoidably amusing.”

“It’s terrible,” Sherlock said flatly. “And you should be ashamed.”

“And yet, you’re the only one that laughed,” John grinned.

“I’m the only one that understood it.”

“Clever you.”

“People are idiots.” Sherlock frowned. “Speaking of idiots, why do you hang out with such dull people?”

John pursed his lips, “You mean my teammates?”

“Yes, idiots, the lot of them. They’ll make you stupid. They don’t appreciate you.”

“Who should I hang out with then?”

“Someone who appreciates more than whether or not you can hit someone harder than they can hit you,” Sherlock said bluntly.

“Someone who appreciates me for… what then? For my wit?”

“Yes.”

“Someone who laughs at my jokes, then?”

“Of course.”

John leaned forward, crossing halfway over the small table. “Someone like you, then?”

“I…” Sherlock stopped, snapped his mouth shut dumbly. “That’s not…”

“Someone who tells me that my friends are all idiots, and I don’t study enough, and my jokes are terrible?” John grinned wolfishly. “I can see the appeal.”

Sherlock frowned.

“Don’t pout.” John eased back into his seat, returning some of Sherlock’s personal space. “I already told you why I’m not going to stop with the puns.”

Sherlock’s brow furrowed. “Because…” He thought back. “Because they make me smile? That’s ridiculous.”

“Is it?” John’s expression softened. “Have you seen yourself when you laugh?”

“Of course I have. It’s my face.” Sherlock brushed the comment away without thinking it through. “There has to be another reason.”

“For the jokes?” John raised both of his eyebrows. “Well, they help me learn. I’m good at remembering stories and jokes. So,” he shrugged. “I’ve all sorts of them stashed away.”

“You have jokes for… for all of your subjects?”

“Sure.”

“So, say particle physics?” Sherlock asked.

“Of course. Atoms… ahhhr matter to me,” John said slowly, the smile tugging at his lips. Sherlock groaned and he took it as encouragement. “How do you know that a Higgs-Boson is Catholic?”

Sherlock gave him a skeptical look. “How?”

“They have mass, Sherlock.” John grinned at his own joke. “That’s how you know gluons are Protestants. No mass. To be honest, particle accelerators give me a hadron.”

Sherlock snickered around a sigh. “Horrible. Geometry.”

“You know that a polar bear is actually a Cartesian bear after a coordinate transform.”

“Atrocious, John!” Sherlock chuckled. “Biology.”

“Oh no,” John held out his hands. “There’s nothing funny about mitosis jokes. Once you say one, everyone splits!”

“Terrible,” Sherlock laughed. “Psy-psychology?”

“I like my dates like I like my dopamine reuptake,” John paused for effect. “Uninhibited.”

Sherlock kept laughing, a rosy flush to his cheeks the only acknowledgement of the sexual connotation. “God-awful. Animal husbandry.”

John chuckled. “How many mice does it take to screw in a lightbulb?”

“I… I don’t know,” Sherlock wheezed helplessly.

“Two,” John said earnestly. “But God knows how they got in there!” Then John broke down in a fit of high-pitched giggles. And just like that, the pair of them were only just keeping from literally rolling in the aisles with laughter. John managed to catch his breath first, wiping a tear from his eye, “Stop, Sherlock, stop. We can’t. People will think we’re nutters.”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you!”

John let out a few spare chortles as he tried to reign in the humor, “Ah well, you know what they say. [Better Nate than lever](http://www.reddit.com/r/Jokes/comments/1fcjkl/the_longest_joke_in_the_world_lost_in_the_desert/).”

“That’s backwards John,” Sherlock huffed, then he narrowed his eyes. “No, that’s a punch line.”

“Oh God,” John groaned. “I am not telling you that one. You can look it up later. Much later. When I’m no where near you and you can’t get mad at me for it.”

“Is it really that terrible?”

“You’ve no idea,” John sighed. “Just… yeah… don’t. Gimme your phone.”

“What?”

“Your phone,” John stretched out his hand, palm up, as he retrieved his coffee, taking a large sip.

Sherlock found himself handing it over. “Why?”

John quickly started tapping at the buttons, the sound of a sent text breaking the silence before he handed it back. A soft chime followed and he tugged his mobile from his pocket and glanced at it, fired off a text and tucked it back into his pocket, returning his attention to his coffee and scone.

Sherlock nearly dropped his phone as it vibrated in his hand. Incoming text. He opened it. It was a reply from (new contact) John Watson to a previous text from his own phone. Sherlock frowned.

**John, should I call you later? –SH**

**_You should if you want to be Mg2Mg5Si8O22(OH)2 –JW_ **

“Is that another pun?” Sherlock raised a brow as he studied the chemical signature. It looked vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t place it.

John shifted slightly in the seat, his tongue flicking out to wet his lips. “Not really a joke, no.”

“I think I much prefer riddles.”

“Ah,” John considered that for a moment. “Well, I need to use the loo. So how about this: What’s round and orange and has four wheels?”

“What?”

“Think about it. I’ll be back in a tick,” John grinned and headed for toilets at the back.

Sherlock frowned. He finished the dregs of his coffee, drummed his fingers on the table, and continued to frown. He started as fingertips brushed his shoulder and John slid back into the booth, then he frowned at John. “What?”

“What?” John raised both brows, the knowingly innocent expression making Sherlock huff in annoyance.

“The answer, John. What is the answer?”

John grinned. “Oh. That.”

“Yes that,” Sherlock growled.

“You couldn’t figure it out?”

Sherlock gave him a dark look.

John sucked his lower lip between his teeth and smiled around it. “Come on. We’ll be late for Biology.” He grabbed his knapsack and slipped out of the booth and straight out the door.

“John!” Sherlock scrambled to catch up. “That’s not fair.”

John turned, walking backwards so he could watch Sherlock’s face. “Oh, alright fine.” He side-stepped a rubbish bin without hesitation. “It’s an orange. I lied about the wheels.”

Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks. “You… Lied…”

“About the wheels.” John stopped too, a broad smile on his face. “An orange, Sherlock.”

Sherlock glared. He watched John’s delighted expression, the laughter in his eyes, the way he was smirking with the tip of his tongue caught between teeth at the corner of his mouth. It was so irritating, maddening, aggravating. An orange… Infuriating. It was probably a terrible idea, it wasn’t even a fully formed idea, more of a reflex: Sherlock lunged at John. And John Watson dodged easily, let out a little whoop of laughter, and took off running in the direction of their next lecture. And Sherlock tore after him.

John was quick, he’d grant him that. But Sherlock was taller, and his long strides rapidly brought him back in catching range. Though, perhaps expecting to tackle a rather proficient rugby fly-half, or was it scrum-half, was ambitious, even for Sherlock. What he didn’t expect was the rapid turn around as John pivoted gracefully and whirled around Sherlock’s outstretched arm to collar him in a solid headlock.

Sherlock sputtered and clutched at John’s forearm, the hold was firm, unyielding, but not painful. John wasn’t even breathing heavily. “John,” Sherlock complained.

“Yeah?” he smiled easily.

“You can let me go now.”

John’s head tilted off to the side. “So soon? I just got you.” The flush on Sherlock’s face was purely from exertion. Purely. One hundred percent. And the small shiver that traced down his spine was entirely from the slightly awkward position of his limbs. Entirely. “Now that I finally have your attention,” John stooped to bring his lips next to Sherlock’s ear. “Maybe I don’t want to let you go.”

Sherlock swallowed heavily. But the arms vanished, and he was released. Relief? Yes, relief; that was the sensation. Expectation, alleviation, reprieve. That was it. Reprieve. Sherlock straightened, pulling his shoulders back and tugging his shirt down into place. John watched from a respectable distance, a cheeky grin on his face. Sherlock rolled his eyes. “You’re ridiculous.” And a flirt.

“Of course I am,” John answered effortlessly. And he was. “Come on, we’ll be late.”

And Sherlock found that he rather liked that John was a flirt. They walked the remainder of the way, side by side, in relative silence. And while John seemed comfortable with the quiet, Sherlock couldn’t help but wonder if he’d somehow overstepped a line, committed a social faux pas. “Are you going to stop with the puns?” he asked softly.

“Probably not.”

“Oh.” Sherlock considered it. “Just so I can be ready. So as to not get us kicked out of another lecture. How often should I expect them?”

Without missing a beat, John grinned up at him, “Periodically.” The puff of laughter out of Sherlock was unplanned and only made John’s smile grow. He paused with his hand on the door to the lecture theater. “Hey, Sherlock?”

“Hm?”

“Since this is Biology, do you know what the difference is between helicase and me?”

Sherlock furrowed his brow. “Aside from the fact that helicase is a class of enzymes and you are a human being?”

John huffed out a laugh, pulling the door open for a few of their classmates before heading into the large hall. “You are going to be hard work, aren’t you?”

“What?” Sherlock followed him in, pausing at the top of the stairs.

“What?” John blinked innocently.

“What’s the difference?”

“Oh, nothing.” John gestured Sherlock into one of the rows. Taking the seat beside him as if it was something they’d always done. “No difference. We both want to unzip your jeans.”

A deep chuckle rumbled in Sherlock’s chest. “That’s terrible. John, absolutely horrible.”

John smiled sweetly. “I have no idea what you mean.” Beneath the writing ledge, John’s palm landed warmly on Sherlock’s knee as John bent under the pretense of retrieving his notebook from his bag. Sherlock felt the blush spread across his cheeks, the low laugh giving way to a higher, breathier, giggle. Reprieve was the wrong word. Definitely the wrong word. “Shh,” John smirked, giving his thigh a quick squeeze and settling back into his seat. “The lecture is starting.”

Sherlock sighed and attempted to focus on the lecture. He couldn’t. He was far too distracted by the warm shoulder that occasionally brushed his, by the odd twitches and quirks of John Watson’s mouth as he considered the professors drabble. Finally Sherlock gave up. He pulled out his mobile and went online, punching in the chemical formula from John’s text.

As the search engine returned the [answer](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cummingtonite), Sherlock made an odd strangled sound, cut off short by warm fingers wrapping gently around the top of his thigh. His eyes never broke from the front of the room, and Sherlock couldn’t even be sure how John knew about the phone. John pitched his voice low so only Sherlock could hear him murmur, “You won’t be if you get me kicked out of Biology. Behave, Sherlock.”

John Watson was definitely trouble. And Sherlock Holmes liked trouble.


	3. Netter Was the Genius, Gray Was the Artist, and Watson Was the Talented Mouthpiece

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Guys, really... This is... This is it. No more. I cannot take it. I've been subjecting everyone I know to really horrible jokes. It has to stop! So... please, accept this as the final installment. Part III of DH Monro Wasn't Kidding. And for the love of God. Please... no more! This is porny, I've managed to destroy some of my man frand's FAVORITE jokes by inserting it into the middle of fluffy smut. If you don't understand one of the puns, let me know; I'm more than happy to explain my idiocy. And for the record, my absolute favorite pirate joke is at the very end.
> 
> And for those of you not WAY into medical texts... Netter's Atlas of Human Anatomy and Gray's Anatomy are two of the most famous and employed anatomy textbooks in medical schools worldwide. Trust me... I've multiple versions of both on my "never ever throw this book away" shelf... And I'm a doctor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like the last one, the more obscure jokes are linked out for ya. Please accept Uni-med student-John making rubbish anatomy jokes. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to find Jesus...

Much to Sherlock’s chagrin, he was not [Mg2Mg5Si8O22(OH)2](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cummingtonite). Or the night after that. Or even the night after that. And it was leaving him profoundly frustrated. It wasn’t that John Watson didn’t like him, or wasn’t interested in him, or had somehow changed his mind and mood and horrible sense of humor. But John Watson was terribly overcommitted with his time, and ridiculously dutiful to his obligations. And that left Sherlock deeply annoyed.

The puns hadn’t stopped. Rather, they might have even increased in their frequency. And the touching had as well. Mostly because a firm hand on Sherlock’s thigh was the only thing that John could do to keep him from laughing, and Sherlock wasn’t about to disabuse John of the notion that there weren’t any other options. And until the professors or classmates finally picked up on the inside joke, John Watson had no intention of stopping. It had even bled into their text messages, which were becoming alarmingly frequent.

Even at work, or in an unshared lecture, or in the middle of the night, John seemed ready and able to respond to all of Sherlock’s texts. It was only slightly mollifying. Text was a poor substitute to the unfamiliar swooping sensation wrought by John’s fingers on Sherlock’s person. And at the moment, Sherlock was glaring at his mobile, willing it to chime with a text that he knew full well wouldn’t be arriving for another hour. Because rugby practice was the only time John seemed incapable of staying in contact. Dull.

He flicked the screen back to life and glared at John’s last text.

**_Hey, Sherlock. What’s the difference between a sharply dressed man on a bicycle and a poorly dressed man on a unicycle? –J_ **

The number of patronizing replies had gone unheeded as John was clearly mucking about on a muddy pitch. And as soon as he was done, he’d have to shower, and study, and eat, and sleep (tedious). And then get up the next morning and do it all over again. The wait was agonizing. Sherlock growled and finally turned his frustrations to his violin. When his phone chimed nearly two hours later, Sherlock assured himself that he didn’t scramble to read the message.

**_Calling me a tit isn’t going get you an answer :) –J_ **

**And knuckle-dragging around the pub with those Neanderthals will not aid your cognitive skills. –SH**

There. Sherlock felt better. It was appropriately scathing, blameful, and sharp.

**_Ca2SbMg4FeBe2Si4O20 –J_**

Sherlock blinked. He studied the chemical signature and frowned. He most certainly did not whine in frustration or tug his hair; besides, there was no one to see him do it if he did. After exactly three minutes of trying to remember exactly what rock that was supposed to be, he stopped gnawing on his lower lip and looked it up.[ Goddammit](http://www.mindat.org/min-4267.html).

**John, that is a completely horrendous, juvenile, ludicrous abuse of geology –SH**

**_You know, you could just tell me that you miss me. –J_ **

Sherlock winced. He was not sappy. He was not given to flights of maudlin. And he was not, most definitely not, going to compromise himself for someone so… So…

His phone pinged. Rapidly. Six back-to-back messages.

**_C4H4AsH_ **

**_C4H4AsH_ **

**_C4H4AsH_ **

**_C4H4AsH_ **

**_C4H4AsH_ **

**_C4H4AsH_ **

**That sent six times, John. Are you drunk? –SH**

**_I have two papers and an exam next week. I most certainly am not drunk.[C4H4AsH](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Arsole) –J_ **

Sherlock glared. He grit his teeth and looked up the chemical. Then he sent a terse reply.

**You are an unmitigated arse. –SH**

**_You know they form[rings](http://onlinelibrary.wiley.com/doi/10.1002/anie.197204411/abstract)? –J_ **

**_I wonder if anyone has done studies on[if they smell](http://www.ingentaconnect.com/content/ben/loc/2005/00000002/00000005/art00019) –J_ **

**_Sherlock, you know what you call it when there are[6 of them](http://www.academiaobscura.com/comic-chemicals/)? –J_ **

**_Don’t be a brat, Sherlock. I told you that I was busy until Saturday night. –J_ **

He had. John had been extremely open about his schedule. About his responsibilities. About when he could and could not spend time with Sherlock outside of class. And he’d been extremely explicit about the fact that he did want to spend time with Sherlock outside of lecture and possibly how that time could be spent. But it felt like all build up and no release. And Sherlock was frustrated. FRUSTRATED.

**But you have a rugby match on Saturday. –SH**

**_And I’ll have all night afterwards. –J_ **

**But those imbeciles will drag you out afterwards. I cannot spend time in the company of such halfwits, I don’t care how enthralling your presence is. –SH**

**_You could come to the match. Drag me away after. Save me from the moronic hordes. –J_ **

**_Yes?_ **

**You’re an idiot. –SH**

**_So I’ll see you on Saturday? –J_ **

**Fine. –SH**

**_Wonderful!_ **

**_Oh, and Sherlock. The answer is attire. –J_ **

**Absolutely atrocious. –SH  
**

**_You love it. ;) I’ll see you Saturday. –J_ **

Sherlock sighed and stared at his mobile. Tomorrow was Friday. Tomorrow was a day full of lectures, only one of which he shared with John. That meant there’d be the odd, distracting, and frankly absurd text; a good three hours of radio silence when John was at training; and maybe, if Sherlock was very lucky, a quick phone call before John went to bed. Sherlock preferred to text. But the musical tone of John’s voice and laughter was something to compose by. And Sherlock would make an exception to hear John. It seemed that Sherlock would make all sorts of exceptions for John Watson.

~o~

“Hey, Sherlock?”

“Yes, John.”

“How well do you know your anatomy?”

“I’ve not studied it with academic intent. Why?”

“Want to know what we discussed in Anatomy today?”

Sherlock turned warily. While their voices were both pitched rather low and they were seated at the back of the lecture hall, Sherlock was dead certain he didn’t want anyone else to overhear this conversation. “John, I’m not sure lecture is the place to be discussing this.”

John managed to keep his eyes forward, his attention seemingly fully devoted to the drone of the professor. But Sherlock didn’t miss the slight quirk of his brow, the twitch at the corner of his mouth. “Alright, if you’re not curious.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and glanced down at his empty page of notes on the ledge. Bored. “Of course I’m curious.”

John’s head bobbed in a militant nod of acceptance. “What grows to five times its original size when excited?”

Sherlock blushed instantly and shrank in his seat. “John!”

John shifted in his chair, leaning casually into Sherlock’s space and shot him a scolding look. “It’s the pupil, Sherlock.” John’s right arm stretched across the back of Sherlock’s seat, even as he faced forward again. It would have been an innocent and friendly motion if not for the light drag of John’s index finger along the collar of Sherlock’s shirt. “And I’ve only three things to say about what you were thinking. One, you have a very dirty mind.” Sherlock shivered at the barely there touch of John’s finger. “Two, you aren’t thinking hard enough. And three, I suspect that you’ll be rather disappointed in life.”

Sherlock felt the tips of his ears burn red as he chewed on his lower lip for a moment. “That’s not the gossip I’ve heard.”

It may have been the first time Sherlock successfully managed to bring a tinge of color to John’s face, and he watched, fascinated as John ran his tongue along the inside of his cheek. But John twisted one of Sherlock’s curls around his finger and gave a slight tug, murmuring out of the corner of his mouth, “My adductor isn’t the only thing that’s longus.”

“Oh my God!” Sherlock clapped a hand over his mouth to keep from laughing.

~o~

**_Hey, Sherlock. Why is my physiology class SO hard? –J_ **

**John, it’s late. Shouldn’t you be asleep? You’ve a match tomorrow. –SH**

**_Humor me. I found this humerus E===3 –J_ **

**You are infallibly idiotic. –SH**

**_Aw, c’mon. You love it. –J_ **

**Fine. Then you go to sleep. Why is physiology so hard? (and if this is a penis joke, so help me, John Watson, you are in trouble) –SH**

**_HA! I should make it a dick joke. No, no. It’s because my professor is really sternum. –J_ **

**You should be ashamed of yourself. –SH**

**_I’m totally not. –J_ **

**I know. It’s one of your charms. –SH**

**_I have more than one? –J_ **

**Don’t fish for complements. It’s beneath you. –SH**

**_What are you working on tonight? –J_ **

**Criminology. It’s fascinating. –SH**

**_Ah man, I never get on with kleptomaniacs. They’re so hard to explain puns to. They always take things. Literally. –J_ **

**John. Stop. You need to sleep. –SH**

**_Alright. You coming tomorrow? –J_ **

**Yes, John. I will come to your match. You’re exhausted. Sleep. –SH**

**_I’m fine, Sherlock. –J_ **

**You’re not. You left an ejaculation pun hanging in your text message. Sleep. –SH**

**_Fine, alright, okay. I’m going to sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow. –J_ **

**Sweet dreams. –SH**

~o~

Sherlock was not prepared for watching John Watson in action on the rugby pitch. He didn’t think he would ever have been prepared to watch John Watson run and scrum and tackle and battle in short shorts and socks and a jersey. He couldn’t have been prepared for John Watson in command, barking orders to his teammates, facing off with the refs, and staring down some of the much taller opponents; though they always seemed to back down under John’s glare. He possibly was surprised when he flushed at John’s try, and felt a slight stab of jealousy when John was subsequently hoisted onto shoulders in victory. And Sherlock Holmes was definitely not prepared for post-match John Watson, sweaty, muddy, and wild as he shook hands with the opponents and trotted over to the bleachers to present himself to Sherlock.

“So, Sherlock Holmes, did you enjoy the match?”

Sherlock hummed. “I’m glad it was a win. And in my unfathomable depth of sporting knowledge, I think you played rather well.”

John grinned. “Oh yeah? Opponents didn’t seem to think so. They just told me ‘Nice Try,’ condescending bastards.”

Sherlock snickered. “You’re awful.”

“I’m actually filthy,” John frowned. And when Sherlock cocked a brow, John giggled. “I need a shower and a change. How do you feel about dinner?”

“Dull.”

“I’m going to need some food, Sherlock.”

“Take away?”

John shrugged. “As long as you feed me.”

“Hungry are you?” Sherlock tilted his head smugly.

John’s smile shifted and he winked. “You’ve no idea. Give me a few minutes to clean up?” He plucked at his jersey and wrinkled his nose.

“If you must.” Sherlock had tried to look bored, tried to wave John towards the showers with a flippant expression and haughty wave of his hand. But John had flashed a roguish grin, reached up with a dirt and grass stained hand to tweak one of Sherlock’s curls, and winked again in departure. And Sherlock had turned a bright shade of crimson and held his breath until the tightness in his stomach had passed.

He waited patiently as John showered and changed. Patiently may have been a stretch, but he waited. Mostly without incident. And watched the other players trickle out of the locker room without much interest. When John finally emerged ages, eons later, Sherlock huffed in annoyance as they headed away from the pitch. “That took an exceptionally long time.”

John shrugged and gave an easy smile. “Maybe I wanted to look nice for you.”

“That,” Sherlock glanced at John’s attire, “Does not look nice.”

John frowned at his well-worn jeans and snug, black jumper. “This is my best jumper.”

“I would never use the word ‘nice’ to describe you,” Sherlock mused. John furrowed his brow, his frown turning into something of an unusual pout. He looked like a puppy. Sherlock wrinkled his nose momentarily and bent forward, bringing his mouth on level with John’s ear. “’Nice’ is not the appropriate term for someone who makes me want to remove every stitch of their clothing with my teeth.”

“Ooooh.” To his credit, John didn’t stumble. He adjusted the strap of his gym bag on his shoulder, smirked for a moment, and glanced up at Sherlock with a dark expression. “Good with your mouth are you?” Sherlock gave a non-committal hum. “Right,” John grinned. “I’ll ask you how to spell cock later. Should be right on the tip of your tongue.”

Sherlock tripped over his own shoe laughing.

“Where are we going anyway?” John asked easily. “If we’re doing a take-away, generally we have to be taking it somewhere.”

~o~

Sherlock sat cross-legged in the middle of his couch and poked at his dumplings with chopsticks. They’d decided to come back to his, since it was closer, since it didn’t involve negotiating around flat mates like John’s place did, since it was home territory and being around John left Sherlock feeling unsteady, unbalanced, and he wanted whatever advantage he could have. He’d had enough to eat though. He wasn’t hungry. Well, he was hungry. But not that kind of hungry. He glanced up at John again who had just managed to stuff a rather large mouthful of noodles into his mouth in one go.

He smiled around the food and swallowed quickly, “Like what you see?” Sherlock blushed and dropped his head. John bumped his elbow off of Sherlock’s knee. “Come on now. Eat yer dinner.”

“Boring.”

John sucked a bit of grease off of his thumb and licked his lips. “Well, you’re going to have to wait for me to eat. I’m famished.” He took another overly large bite and laughed at the frown on Sherlock’s face.

“John.” Sherlock set his food on the coffee table. “There…” He paused, rallying himself. “There are better things for you to be doing with your mouth,” he finished in a huff.

John doubled over, giggling. “Sherlock…”

“I am actually serious.”

John straightened with a sigh and sucked his lower lip between his teeth. After a moment, he squeezed Sherlock’s thigh. “I know.” He reached over to the table for a swig of his beer. “And it’s adorable. But if you want me to have the energy for some of those ‘better things’ then I need food. I did just spend two hours mucking about on a pitch.”

Sherlock huffed and flopped back against the cushions.

John hummed and knocked the bottle off of Sherlock’s knee before replacing it on the table. “I’ll tell you a story then? To pass the time?”

“If you’d just focus on eating as quickly as possible.”

John grinned and took a bite, speaking around the food. “Once upon a time…”

Sherlock groaned.

“There were three kingdoms, all bordering on the same lake. In the middle of the lake, there was an island with a small fort. For centuries, these three kingdoms fought over the island, the fort changing hands over and over again. One day, they decided to have it out, once and for all.” John watched Sherlock surreptitiously as he snuck in bites of food between sentences. “The first kingdom was quite rich. They sent an army of twenty-five knights and each knight brought three squires and they set up camp on the shore of the lake. The night before the battle, the knights jousted and cavorted as their squires polished armor, cooked food, and sharpened weapons.”

Sherlock sighed heavily.

John’s mouth quirked around another large bite of noodles. “The second kingdom was not so wealthy. But they did send ten knights and each knight brought two squires and they set up camp on the shore of the lake. The night before the battle, the knights cavorted and sharpened their weapons and the squires polished armor and cooked food.”

“John,” Sherlock complained.

John dug into the take-away container, nearing the bottom. “Now, the third kingdom was actually very poor, Sherlock. They could only send one knight and he was quite elderly and he only had one squire.”

“Then why send him at all?”

“It’s a joke, Sherlock, be patient.” John scraped the bottom of the container. “The night before the battle, the knight sharpened his weapon, while the squire looped a rope and slung a pot high over the fire to cook dinner and he prepared the knight’s armor. And this is where it gets interesting. Are you listening, Sherlock?”

“Is there anything else I could be doing?” Sherlock pouted.

“The next day, the battle was to begin. But the knights from the first two kingdoms had jousted and cavorted a bit too much, they should have known not to cavort while sharpening weapons and jousting, and none of them were fit for battle. The elderly knight from the third kingdom was so old that he’d passed away in his sleep. And all that was left for battle were the squires. So in the absence of the knights, the squires decided to do battle for the island.” John stretched to set his empty container on the table and picked up his beer. “The battle raged on all day long and late into the evening. There was blood and sweat and excrement, because any good battle has excrement involved.”

Sherlock huffed out a laugh.

“But when the dust finally settle, late, late in the night, one solitary figure limped from the carnage.” John sipped his beer. “The lone squire from the third kingdom dragged himself away, beaten, bloodied, but victorious. And you know what that proves, Sherlock?”

“No idea.”

John replaced his empty beer on the table and shifted, pulling himself closer to Sherlock, nudging his knees so he’d stretch his legs out. “It goes to prove, Sherlock,” John stretched himself over Sherlock, his knees resting on either side of Sherlock’s hips, settling warmly atop his thighs. “It just goes to prove, that the squire of the high pot and noose is equal to the sum of the squires of the other two sides.” He tilted his chin down and raised a brow.

Sherlock tried not to smile. He bit both his lips to keep from smiling. He sucked in a breath as he tried, he tried. And he failed. And a deep rumbling laugh burst out of him. “John, that’s absolutely terrible.”

John grinned, his hands rising to cup Sherlock’s face between his palms. “There it is,” he whispered. “It’s been nearly an hour since you smiled like that.”

“Oh,” Sherlock breathed as one callused thumb traced the boundary of his lower lip.

“I really love to see you smile.”

Sherlock closed his eyes against the open adoration in John’s gaze. “Really?”

“Really. Very much.” John inched closer, tilting Sherlock’s face up to meet his own. “Better things?”

It took Sherlock a moment to realize that John was waiting, hesitating, holding out for him to say yes. “Please,” Sherlock whispered. And it was the last word Sherlock ever wanted to say as John Watson’s mouth crushed against his and everything became wet and warm and lips and teeth. And then Sherlock remembered that he had arms and hands and fingers and he was allowed to touch. And he did, his fingers mapping the warm weight of a man pinning him back into the couch; the feel of his shaggy gold hair, the texture of his skin along his jaw, the tactile sound of nails scraping down the soft knit of his jumper. And when John’s tongue brushed along the seam of his lips, Sherlock moaned and fisted his hands in John’s clothes and pulled. “Off,” he growled.

John pulled his hand away from where it was already working on the fourth button of Sherlock’s shirt and ran the tip of his index finger down the exposed skin of his neck and chest, a small appreciative smile threatening at the corners of his mouth. “Alright.”

He sat back on his heels and Sherlock’s lower thighs and tugged his jumper and tee shirt off in one quick move, exposing toned and tanned chest and shoulders to Sherlock’s scrutiny. The bundle of clothes wound up at the far end of the couch in a ball. Sherlock gulped and stared, his hands resting immobile on John’s thighs. John grinned, carefully unbuttoning the remainder of Sherlock’s shirt as Sherlock only watched. “Alright?”

Sherlock nodded, slowly bringing his eyes back up to John’s face.

John leaned forward to slide the shirt from Sherlock’s arms and took his time to drag his lips lightly across the top of his shoulder, the side of his neck, and the soft spot behind his ear. Sherlock shivered. “Sherlock?”

Sherlock sucked in a sharp breath, his hands clenching reflexively against John’s thighs.

John took it as acknowledgement. “What’s long, hard, and full of seamen?” Sherlock shook his head absently, gulping when the tip of John’s tongue traced the outer shell of his ear. “No?” John purred. “It’s a submarine; get your mind out of the gutter.”

Sherlock huffed out a nervous breath. “John.”

John dragged his nose across Sherlock’s cheek with an airy chuckle. “Yes?”

“You have to stop it.”

“Mmn,” John rubbed his nose against Sherlock’s. “Nope. Not going to happen.” Sherlock’s objection died on the tip of his tongue, or was sucked straight out of his mouth and into John’s. And John’s fingers threaded into his curls, clutching, scratching at his scalp, tugging just enough to bare Sherlock’s throat to warm lips. “Do you know why?”

Sherlock shook his head minutely.

“Because,” John found a particularly sensitive patch of skin beneath Sherlock’s jaw and nipped at it. Sherlock made a sound high in his throat; that would leave a mark if John kept at it. And he didn’t care. “Relationships are messy, Sherlock. This is messy. Better things are messy. And it’s not clean, and it’s not perfect, and it’s weird and awkward. And laughing makes everything better.”

There was some logic in that. At least, Sherlock thought there might be. But he wasn’t exactly thinking clearly. “Is that medical advice?”

“Laughter is the best medicine,” John’s lips were at his ear, then wrapped around his earlobe, sucking, nipping, the scrape of teeth drawing a low moan from him. “What do you want?”

“Everything.”

John groaned, his forehead dropping against Sherlock’s shoulder, his hands remarkably gentle as they swept across exposed skin.

“No?” Sherlock asked weakly.

But John’s mouth skated across the side of his neck and when his eyes came into view, they were a deep, dark navy and flashing with hunger. “That’s not… Not exactly what I meant,” John rumbled.

Sherlock didn’t care. It was exactly what he’d meant. And he decided to prove it, starting by tasting every bit of skin he could find. And it was exquisite. John Watson was delicious. And apparently the base of his neck was rather sensitive, because when Sherlock sucked there, John gave a small cry and bucked against him. And he shivered when Sherlock’s fingers traced the elastic waistband at the small of his back, and he groaned when Sherlock palmed his arse. And when Sherlock put his lips to John’s ear and whispered, “How about you fuck me, then.” John Watson snogged Sherlock senseless.

“I’m not going to…” John rested his forehead against Sherlock’s for a moment as they both caught some much-needed air. “At least not… Not on the couch.” His tongue darted out to wet his lips and ghosted across Sherlock’s as well.

“Where then?” Sherlock tried to chase his mouth, but John seemed insistent on breathing. Boring.

“You have a bed around here?” John asked with amusement.

“No,” Sherlock answered wryly as he ran his knuckles down the knobs of John’s spine. “I hang from the ceiling like a proper vampire.”

“Pity,” John sighed, straightening. Pushing to stand, rather uncomfortably, and shaking his head. “Guess I’ll just have to go home.”

Sherlock lurched up from the sofa, crowding into John’s personal space, and backing him toward the kitchen. “Don’t you dare.”

And that’s how Sherlock found himself stripped naked and spread out on his bed with a golden, hungry, tormenting John Watson working him open and deliberately taking his time about it. “What’s the worst joke you know, Sherlock?”

Sherlock pressed his eyes closed. It was too much. Just the slow circular motion of John’s finger, the pressure too light, the firm hand on his hip, the teasing kisses to his knee. “Hardly the time, John,” he groaned finally.

John nipped the sensitive skin on his inner thigh. “Indulge me.”

There was no way he couldn’t, not when John dropped his voice low like that. Sherlock whined as he tried to recall a stupid joke. Not really something he’d devoted memory space to either. Who did? “Ah,” Sherlock squirmed. “What… What’s brown and sticky?” He sucked in a sharp breath as John’s finger pushed in, just to the first knuckle, just enough to tease. Oh, God. More.

John quirked a brow, his wry smile signifying that he was well aware of where his hand was. “I don’t know, Sherlock. What is brown and sticky?” He punctuated his words with gentle thrusts of his finger.

“Oh God.” It wasn’t a whimper. Sherlock didn’t whimper. He took a moment to collect his voice, but it was so damn difficult with John distracting him. “A stick.” John chuckled, his lips drawing back into a smile even as he pressed light kisses to Sherlock’s belly, his flank, sweeping his tongue into his bellybutton, and slowly, too slowly, pressing his finger deeper. “You… Your turn,” Sherlock whispered.

“Hm?” John was sucking on Sherlock’s hip. God that was going to leave a mark too. Good. Marks everywhere. Proof.

“Bad joke.” Sherlock tried to chase John’s hand, but he was rather expertly pinned in place. “Stupid… Worst… You go.”

“Oh,” John propped himself up on his elbow, his free hand under his chin, looking lazy and relaxed and wholly uninterested in the progression of his hand, of the two fingers that now pressed against Sherlock’s hole, of how mussed his hair was, of his kiss swollen lips. And it was infuriating. “Worst one I know?”

Sherlock nodded then barely caught the moan that threatened the back of his throat as John’s fingers twisted and pressed. John definitely noticed, but feigned innocence, blinking with a guileless expression that made Sherlock’s chest squeeze. “Worst,” he begged.

“What do you call a deer with no eyes?”

Sherlock stared at the long blond lashes, at John’s tongue as it rested against his lower lip and shook his head, clenching his fingers in the sheets.

“No-eyed-deer.” John grinned and giggled.

And it was ridiculous and silly and Sherlock felt himself start to laugh out John’s name only to have it drawn into a long sigh of vowels as both fingers pressed inside. And Sherlock sucked in a breath only to have it leave in a relaxed series of chuckles. John was right. This was better. This was better than anything.

“Hey Sherlock,” John had returned to nuzzling his way across Sherlock’s abdomen. “What do you call a deer with no eyes and no legs?”

Sherlock was panting, caught between laughing and moaning and sighing and wanting more and needing friction. “You… Cannot… John,” he complained in a high whine.

“Still no-eyed-deer.” Sherlock’s groan turned into a cry as John licked a long stripe up from the base of his cock. “Good God, look at you,” John whispered, shifting to pump his fingers with a sure rhythm, mouthing his way up Sherlock’s chest. “Just gorgeous.”

“You have…” Sherlock swallowed heavily and ran his palms greedily across John’s shoulders and back as they came within reach again. “Rather dexterous hands.”

“Mmn,” John hummed against Sherlock’s mouth, nipping at his lower lip. “And a rather extensive knowledge of anatomy.”

“Why would…” Sherlock gave a shout and his spine bowed reflexively off the bed as John pressed unerringly against his prostate. “Fuck,” he hissed.

John grinned. “Fucking stunning.”

“Please,” Sherlock whined. “You are going to kill me.”

“Maybe.”

Maybe? More than likely, given the look in John’s eyes. This time Sherlock did whimper. “John, please. Please!” The sound that came from deep in John’s chest could only be described as a growl. And John stilled, his head bowed. And again, Sherlock worried he’d done something wrong. “John?”

John lifted his head and heaved a breath, blinking at Sherlock for a moment. “Alright,” he said finally, and Sherlock shuddered at the gravel of it. He slowly started to ease his fingers out, his free hand groping for the condom. “What’s the filthiest joke you know?”

Sherlock let out the pent up breath he’d been holding. “John,” he complained, eyes going wide as John tore the condom wrapper open with his teeth.

“Go on.”

Sherlock furrowed his brow, watching the progress of the condom, the extra lube John added. “I…”

“You must know at least one,” John settled himself back over Sherlock.

“There’s one really bad one,” Sherlock shifted his hips, bucking up against John. “Called The [Aristocrats](http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=the+aristocrats).”

“Sherlock Holmes,” John rasped. “If you ever, EVER recite that monstrosity in our bed, I will wash your mouth out with soap.”

Sherlock all but pouted. “There are better things to do with my mouth.”

John groaned, “This is what I get, isn’t it.”

“Fine,” Sherlock pressed up to get his lips on John’s neck again. “You go.”

“What,” John tilted his head, giving better access even as he took himself in hand to line up. “Did the leper say to the prostitute?”

Sherlock’s breath was hot against John’s throat. “I dunno. What?”

John grit his teeth for a moment in an act of self restraint then pushed up on his free hand to gaze down at Sherlock. “Keep the tip.”

“Oh God!” Sherlock moaned as John slid more than just the tip inside of him. Not enough. He reached up, looping his arm around John’s neck, his fingers digging into John’s golden hair, and dragged those mirthful lips down to his own. It wasn’t a teasing kiss, it was demanding, fierce, and messy. And at any other time with any other person, Sherlock may have been self-conscious at the sounds they were making, and the noises coming from his throat, but he wasn’t. He wrapped his legs around John’s back, pulling him closer, rocking up into the lazy rhythm John was setting.

John groaned into Sherlock’s mouth, letting his weight drop onto his forearms, running his fingers through dark curls. It wasn’t going to be slow for much longer. He wasn’t going to be in control for much longer. And from the look of it, neither was Sherlock. “Fucking brilliant,” he tried to brand the message into Sherlock’s skin. “Jesus, Sherlock, you’re perfect.”

Sherlock’s voice was wrecked, a litany of John’s name spilling out of him between moans and pants and sweat and the rocking of his hips. And the low noises cut off into a cry as John wrapped a hand around his straining erection, pulling in time with the quickening snap of his hips. “Oh God, John!”

“Come on,” John growled, mouthing at the sweat glistening on Sherlock’s neck. “You’re so close. Just let go, you beautiful fucking creature.”

Sherlock wasn’t sure exactly what it was. It could have been the way John rolled his hips, it could have been the slight hitch in Sherlock’s ankles where they pressed into the small of John’s back, it could have been the unusual twisting motion that John managed with his hand as it passed over the head of his cock, it could have been the scrape of teeth against his neck. It was probably all of them. And Sherlock’s vision greyed until he was forced to close his eyes against the flickering spots, and his spine bowed, and he shouted something sharp and loud.

When he regained his senses, John was a pleasantly heavy weight, his fingers stroking Sherlock’s chest and flank, his face nuzzling into the sweat soaked curls at his temple. “Alright?”

Sherlock hummed and nodded.

John disappeared and reappeared, wiping soft fabric across Sherlock’s abdomen before released a heavy breath, flopping onto his back with a self-satisfied groan. “God, Sherlock, that was magnificent.”

Sherlock rumbled something of an approving noise, easing his forearm from his face to blink at John with a rather dopey smile on his face. “Remind me to write thank you letters to Netter and Gray.”

John snorted. “And you said I don’t study enough.”

Sherlock chuckled. “I would never say something so spuriously inaccurate.”

John giggled. “Prat.”

“Slanderer,” Sherlock laughed. “Fine. I rescind whatever erroneous comment I may have made. You are a testament to your future profession. And should it be required, I will happily provide recommendation.”

“Dear Sirs, John Watson has an excellent knowledge of anatomy. Why, just the other day he fucked me senseless.” John clutched his stomach as his giggles went high-pitched and loud.

“I do not sound like that.”

John managed to reign in some of the snickering. “If I were studying philosophy, would you have to write a ‘To Hume’ letter?”

“John, stop!”

“Hey, Sherlock?”

“Hm?”

“What’s long, hard, and has cum in it?”

“I swear to you, John Watson, if you say it’s me…”

“You?” John giggled and raised a both his eyebrows. “It’s a cucumber. Jesus you have a filthy mind.”

“John!” Sherlock chortled, giving him a shove that stopped just shy of knocking him out of the bed.

John latched on to Sherlock’s arm, braced himself at the last moment, and reversed directions, rolling back atop the taller man. “None of that now.” He grinned and tucked his nose against the back of Sherlock’s ear, snuffling into the skin until Sherlock was giggling helplessly.

“John… John!” Sherlock flailed, trying to throw John off through his laughter.

But John Watson was like an unmovable force when he wanted to be. He wouldn’t be changed or displaced without his consent and to try was a futile endeavor. And Sherlock sighed in relief as John shifted, bumping his nose under Sherlock’s just once before kissing him with lazy intent. “You are an absolute wonder,” he breathed against Sherlock’s lips.

Sherlock sighed and ruffled his hand through the hair at the nape of John’s neck, running his fingers against the flaxen grain. John let out a sound much like a purr and dropped his forehead against Sherlock’s shoulder, rubbing his face back and forth against whatever skin he could find. “Have you always wanted to be a doctor?”

John huffed against his collarbone. “Where did that question come from?”

Sherlock shrugged against John’s weight. “Who knows.”

“Mmn,” John hummed. “Always. My grandfather… Well. Yes. You?”

“Never wanted to be a doctor, no,” Sherlock murmured.

John chuckled, drawing back to look Sherlock in the eye. “Not that, you berk. When you were little. What did you want to be when you grew up?”

“When I was little?” Sherlock’s nose wrinkled for a moment. “A pirate.”

A smile bloomed slowly and easily across John’s face. “A pirate, huh?” When Sherlock nodded, he caught the mischievous glint in John’s eyes. “Do you know, Sherlock, what a pirate’s favorite letter is?”

Sherlock groaned. “John, no.”

“Ah, c’mon, Sherlock. You could at least guess. There’s a one in twenty-six chance that you get it right without even thinking.”

“Neither of us are wearing pants, John,” Sherlock complained.

John raised a brow, his smile never faltering. “I fail to see how pants would give you better odds.”

Sherlock tried to give him a stern look, but it failed and the corners of his mouth twitched. “I suspect you’re going to say the letter R.”

“Aye, you may think it be arr,” John affected the worst pirate accent possible. “But a pirate’s first love always be the sea.”

Sherlock managed to keep a straight face for as long as it took John to lick his lips and grin again. Then they both dissolved into a fit of giggles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted as Ch 15, 16, 17 of Tumblr Shorts (you can still find it there too). But this one just... deserved its own space.

**Author's Note:**

> 


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